


5. But the Socks are Mine

by WhatLocked



Series: 50 Reasons [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And Sherlock may have a bit of a foot ware kink, But the socks are better, Did I mention that they were tight?, M/M, Rugby - and right now I shall apologise for knowing absolute jack about the sport., Sex, Sherlocks ignorance is quite adorable. And astonishingly worse than mine., Socks, Teeny tiny rugby shorts., because tagging takes away the SURPRISE of it all, which I wont go into here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 08:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8659045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: John has joined the Yards Homicide Division Rugby team and Sherlock thinks nothing of it.  Until he goes and watches a game.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheColdEastWind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheColdEastWind/gifts).



> First up, I would just like to send out a huge thanks to TheColdEastWind for suggesting “Our lovely boy genius deletes all useless information about rugby. Our dreamy Doctor decides to play a few pickup games with the Yarders. Lover boy wonders down to the pitch one day and loses his shit when he see good boy gone very bad John Watson playing Fly half, covered in mud and men.”
> 
> Secondly, I would just like to state that before this, I knew absolutely nothing about rugby. I still know bugger all, so if there is anything rugby related in here that is wrong, feel free to bring it to my attention. (Sherlocks comments do not count. They are purposefully wrong!)
> 
> And thirdly, as always, this series can only continue with suggestions from my fantastic audience, so please, feel free to leave a suggestion for our boys to get down and dirty.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock signed his name on the line at the bottom and pushed the paper across the desk.  “Happy” he grumbled.  

Lestrade, who was on the other side of the desk, picked up the piece of paper with a smile that was completely unnecessary and said “Completely giddy.”

Sherlock stood up as the DI filed the statement away with the rest of the paper work and stalked out of the office, heading towards the elevators.  Surely this could have waited until tomorrow but for some reason both Gabe and John had been adamant that he come down to The Yard tonight to fill in the paperwork.  It had only been made worse by Johns refusal to do it for him.  Instead the two of them had sat and idly chatted about inane, pointless things that Sherlock had deleted before he had even caught the thread of their conversation.  

Just as the elevator doors opened, John caught up to him.  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning” Lestrade called and out of the corner of his eye Sherlock saw John wave his hand in confirmation.  

They were silent all the way down to ground floor and nothing was said until they exited the elevator.  “Made plans with Lestrade, then.”

“Mmm” John replied, pushing the door to the building open.  “Catching up for a game with him and a few others from the office.  Wenders broke his leg last week and they don’t have any spares.  You’re welcome to come along.”

“No, thank you.”  The decline was out of his mouth before John could even finish asking, not that it seemed to bother him.  He just replied with a shrug and a “Suit yourself” and the topic was dropped for the evening.  

~o~

“Why are you covered in mud?”  The question was out of Sherlocks mouth before John could completely remove his jacket.  

“It’s what happens in rugby” John replied hanging his jacket on the hook.  His shoulder was stiff.  He had somehow managed to aggravate it. 

“Is it also supposed to leave you stiff and sore?” Sherlock asked eyeing John as he gingerly moved his way through the loungeroom.  Apparently there were other parts of him that ached as well.   There was only two activities that Sherlock approved of John doing that left him limping and he was a part of both of these activities, so therefor this new hobby of Johns was not at all approved by Sherlock.  Hopefully John had learnt his lesson, if the way the slow, stiff removal of his shoes was anything to go by.

“Just muscles that I haven’t used in a while.  It won’t be so bad next time” he announced as he headed towards the bathroom.  “Nothing a hot shower won’t fix.”

Next time?  How utterly banal.  As if one time wasn’t enough.  Not only was it leaving John aching from things Sherlock had not participated in that but the sweatpants he was wearing were just awful - more so than any of Johns other trousers.  Sherlock couldn’t see any shape to John’s most impressive half whatsoever.  

He rest his head back on the arm of the sofa and closed his eyes.  Given enough time John would grow bored with the rugby and then all of this nonsense would stop.  Sherlock needn't worry himself with it any further.

~o~

“Hey, Watson.  Great game last week.  Good to have you on the team.  Didn’t think we’d ever beat Narcotics.”

Sherlock watched in confusion as John turned to the unknown person of no importance and smiled back at him.

“Everyone’s gotta fall sooner or later” John replied with good humour.  

“Especially when we’ve got you on our team.”

“Beginners luck” John called as he followed Sherlock, who had had enough of the exchange.  They were here for a reason and that wasn’t to stand around in the lobby of all places, discussing Johns new time waster.

“Beginner my arse” came the laughed reply as the elevator doors closed, removing the other man from their sight.  

Nothing was said as the elevator moved up to fourth floor.

Unfortunately, that didn’t last once the doors opened.  

“Hey, Watson” and Sherlock cringed at the over excited salutation.  Was this to be their new greeting from now on?  He almost preferred ‘ _Oi, freak._ ’

“Hey, Lilly” John replied with a more acceptable amount of enthusiasm, but still, this was slowing them down from their reason of actually being there at all.  

The man, Lilly (obviously his last name, otherwise his parents really were disappointed with the results) walked over and slapped John on the back.  “Please say you’re coming back this week?”

John grinned and nodded.  “Yeah, thought I’d give it another shot.”

“Thank fuck for that mate.  We’re up against DSU.  For some reason, everyone drops their game when up against those bastards.  We’re sort of hoping you’ve got the balls to stand up to them.”

Sherlocks frustration was starting to become palpable.  Johns balls were nobody’s business except his.  And well, maybe Johns, but that went without saying.

“I’ll see what I can do” John grinned and they continued their Journey towards Lestrades office.

It all became a bit too much when they were stopped once again by Donovan, of all people, strolling up to them and starting to playfully rub Johns stomach.  “If it isn’t our good luck charm.  Good job, Watson.  We going to see you this week?”

“Donovan, kindly remove your hands from John.  I know where they’ve been.”

“Nowhere more unsavoury than where yours have been, that’s for sure.”

“No, I’m pretty sure Anderson’s p…”

“STOP” barked John, sounding like he was in some form of pain, but Donovan did remover her hand.  “Enough.  This can all end, right now.”  He looked from the spot on the wall he had been studying and over to Donovan.  

“One week hardly counts as good luck” he replied but to Sherlocks horror, there was a smile there.  “But I’m happy to put your theory to the test, and come back this week.”

Sherlock let out a huff of annoyance and stalked away, towards Lestrades office.  This was ridiculous.  It was a game, a stupid, mind-numbingly boring, pathetic game that served no purpose other than to allow the players to hit a ball into a net or a hole or something else.  This was apparently achieved by rolling around in mud.  As a child Sherlock had done that very thing, only to be scolded and sent straight up to the shower.

“Not a single word about rugby” Sherlock said as he stormed into Lestrades office, leaving John chatting with Donovan.

Lestrades mouth quickly snapped shut, but there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye.  It became apparent why as he lifted his coffee mug up and took a sip.  

 **RUGBY-our balls are bigger** was splashed on the side of the mug in bright green and orange letters.

“Oh, for crying out loud.  Is that all you think about.  I was under the impression that someone had been murdered.”

Lestrade lowered the mug and kept his smile away, only just.  “Not really what you would call worth it” Lestrade said, tossing a file onto the desk.  Sherlock picked it up and flipped through it.  “Seemed like a fairly standard robbery gone horribly wrong, but we honestly can’t find any clues to the killer and it’s been almost a week.  Figured you could probably have it solved in half a day.  John said you’d been getting a bit restless lately.  Thought we could help each other out.”

Sherlock held up one of the pictures before discarding it for another one.  “I’ll need to see the crime scene” he said, replacing the photo and dropping the entire file back on Lestrades desk.  

“Done” Lestrade replied and Sherlock turned to find John now chatting with Dimmock.  This was going to be a long a day.

~o~

Sherlock woke and stretched, feeling something in his back pop and a sound that strongly resembled a purr rumbled up from somewhere in his chest as he rolled over to face…an empty bed.  The smile that had been forming dropped away.  John was not where John should be.  It was Saturday morning and there was no case so why was John…Oh.  Rugby. 

A disappointed sigh left Sherlocks lips as he looked down the bed at the outline of his more than semi hard cock.  Apparently John wasn’t going to take care of it because after two weeks, he apparently still hadn’t tired of rugby.  It really was an inconvenience that Lestrade had invited John to join their divisions pack?….group?…well, whatever it was it was a bother, as now Sherlock was going to have to deal with his erection himself, which - thanks to John Watson - was never completely satisfactory anymore.

~o~

Sherlock was not in a good mood.  He was not even in a tolerable mood.  He was pacing the floor, back and forth, back and forth.  He was going to kill Mycroft, the cowardly, snivelling utter shite-bag.  He was tugging at his hair one last time when he realised that he had veered off course, just slightly and was too late to stop himself from stumbling over the side table next to Johns chair, sending himself and a stack of dull novels to the floor.

“Sherlock?”  John called from the bathroom.  “All right in there?”

Sherlock took some pleasure, as he fought in his now tangled coat, that John sounded somewhat concerned.  After all, he was partly to blame for this bad mood as well.

“Fine” he shouted back, righting himself, but leaving the side table and the books for John to clean up and he stalked over and slunk down in his chair.  

“I heard a thump” John announced as he came into the livingroom, his shirt buttons undone, toothbrush in his hand, foam around his mouth.  Him looking so adorably sexy was not helping Sherlock keep his bad mood.  

“Yes” he snapped, pulling his eyes away from Johns bare chest, determined to stay in his foul mood, just so John could see that this was all completely unacceptable.  “Thats because someone left the table in the way and I walked into it.”

John looked down at the table and the books and then up at Sherlock, eyebrow cocked as if to say ‘ _Seriously, Sherlock.  That’s what you’re going with_.’

“Yes” Sherlock answered petulantly, because he had every right to be petulant.  John was supposed to be his partner, his rock, _his supportive other half_.  He wasn’t supposed to leave him to face the hungry lions, alone and defenceless.

“Sherlock” John almost laughed.  “You’ll be fine.  It will only be a couple of hours at most, and I told you, if we finish early, I will meet you at the restaurant.”

“Or you could just come with me now and I won’t have to suffer alone at all.”

John outright chuckled at that.  “It’s hardly suffering, and I told you, me and the guys want to go celebrate before semi's tomorrow.  If you had accepted the invitation I would have been able to tell Mycroft that you were in fact, actually busy tonight.”

“Whenever Mycroft asks you should always tell him I’m busy, regardless of whether I am or not.”

John sighed.  “We are both well aware that Mycroft is more than capable of knowing when I am lying.  We tried that, remember, when you tried avoiding him for two weeks and somehow managed to talk me into telling him that you had typhoid.”

Sherlock didn’t answer.  It was true.  John was a rubbish liar.  Unless it was telling people that they looked nice.  Even then, it was done in a round about way using words such as _individual_ , _different_ and _charming_.  He never actually outright lied.

“Sherlock.  It is dinner with your parents.  Your lovely, interesting parents.  They haven’t seen you in over a month.  They want to catch up.”

“They will talk about the weather, and their local vicar and oh god….they will regale me with updates of what Aunty Iris is up to.  Do you want to know, John, because I can already tell you.”

John opened his mouth to protest, but Sherlock got in first.  “She is still grooming her satanic cats for those god awful cat shows and then they will tell me how Morris is getting too old, because he will surely be eight by now so she is grooming Salisbury to take his place.  Then they will inform me how her neighbours, who have been there for forty seven years this August, John, have been acting stranger than usual and maybe dear little Shirley” at this Sherlocks voice rose several levels “ would like to come down and do his little detective trick and find out what they are up to because surely it is something unsavoury.  And then, they will tell me about Uncle Rudy, John and they will tell me how lovely his latest gown…”

“Alright, Sherlock” John laughed.  “I get it, I really do, and I promise that I will try and leave Greg’s as soon as possible.”

Sherlock slumped down into his chair even further.  It was no good.  He was going to have to go have dinner with his parents and without John.  This was all mycrofts fault and since it was his fault maybe he could do Sherlock a favour banning rugby from here on in.  Make it illegal.  Punishable by death.  It wouldn’t be great loss, after all, it was just a group of men kicking around a little ball.

“If your good” John called as he headed back into the bathroom, “I’ll let you see if you can stay quiet through a hand job in the taxi home.  See if you can beat last times length before you give in.”

Sherlock sighed.  Maybe tonight wouldn’t be so bad after all.  

~o~

Sherlock grimaced as he took a sip from the cup in his hands.  It was cold.  And there was no sugar.  He looked at the cup again.

**Rugby: If it wasn’t a game the police would be called in to break it up**

He scrunched his nose up - at the ridiculous cup, which Lestrade had given John last week and at the fact that this was Johns tea from earlier that morning.  The one he never got to finish because he was _running fucking late_ apparently.

According to John, today was the big match.  Sherlock supposed that was supposed to mean something, he just wasn’t sure what it was, but it allegedly involved the Bomb Disposal Unit going down somewhere.  Again, Sherlock had no idea where they were supposed to be going, but down it was.  Or so John had said last night. 

It was bizarre.  Sherlock had thought John would have tired of this rugby lark by now.  As much as he was a social person he didn’t actually like things that obliged him to be social.  He would rather it be on his terms, so needless to say, regular meetings, twice a week - once on a Thursday and once on a Saturday - was completely out of the norm for John.  But he was still at it, going to rehearsals and then the game every week and he actually seemed to be enjoying it, which then made Sherlock wonder what happened at these forays.   Every time he came home dirty, tired and aching, yet, he went back.  

Sherlock looked back at the mug that was now sitting on the coffee table.  Maybe it was time he changed out of his bed sheet and meandered down to the game.  It wouldn’t be hard to locate them.  Lestrade updated this type of trite information on his Facebook page on a regular basis.  

Sherlock stood up and made for their bedroom, wondering if he should put the lung he had taken out of the freezer into the fridge or leave it on the bench to thaw out.  He decided to leave it, deciding that he wouldn’t be long anyway.  He was sure to be disappointed in the lack of intellect, or interest he was bound to find in Johns new hobby, but at least he could now say that he had made an effort.

~o~

It took Sherlock a bit longer than anticipated to get to the rugby court.  Apparently they didn’t play at the same place every week.  But here he was at a local park in Belsize Park and judging by the green and orange hats and t-shirts that half the audience was wearing, he was in the right spot this time.

Being tall had it’s advantages and Sherlock used that advantage to look over the heads of the friends and families of the players and when he finally spotted John, everything seemed to stop.  No more cheering or cat calling.  No more traffic.  No more laughter from the playground on the other side of the park.  The trees were gone, the people were gone.  All that there was, was John.

The hooded jumper John generally wore to and from games had been discarded to show a white and orange top, stretched across his torso and pulling over his shoulders.  Sherlock had noticed the slight muscle build up since John had started playing rugby, but something about the way the shirt moulded to his body made him truely appreciate it all the more.  He wouldn’t be making the mistake of under appreciating Johns physique again.  His eyes travelled across Johns shoulders and down his back and then further down still.

Gone were Johns baggy, shapeless, faded grey sweatpants and in their place were shorts.  Glorious, short, tight, dark green shorts.  All this time, this is what John had been wearing under those god awful trousers when he could have just been wearing those.  The shorts outlined the shape of his rear beautifully and Sherlock watched as the muscles moved when he ran and dodged and jumped.  It was made even more perfect by watching the muscles in his bare thighs pumping as ran along the field and those socks, hideously orange in colour, shaped his calves as if they had been sculpted from hard, smooth stone.  

He barely noticed the ball in Johns hands until suddenly there was a blur and John was no longer on his feet.  Sherlock found himself holding his breath as a large man tackled John to the ground, covering John’s small form with his larger one and what appeared to be an even larger woman joining in on the pile.  He released the breath when John wriggled from the bottom of the jumble of limbs and darted out, ball still in hand and another pink and black clad player hot on his heels.  He ran further up the field and his body twisted, almost artistically, as he turned to throw the ball back to another player in green, someone Sherlock vaguely remembered seeing at one crime scene or another.   She took the ball and darted past only to have it removed from her possession by another player from the other team.  It was then the most glorious thing happened.  John, a fierce look of determination on his face changed course and headed towards the person who now had the ball.  In a split second John was no longer running, but flying through the air, hands out towards his opponent.  His hands latched onto the mans waist and the two of them fell to the ground, John, Victorious in causing the other man to relinquish his grip on the ball, only for Lestrade to pick it up and run like merry hell, but Sherlock didn’t care about Lestrade.  Or any of the other players.  He could only look as John, tangled with the other man, tried to get back up.  Sherlock couldn’t make out what was being said between the two of them but whatever it was made John chuckle.  Sherlock watched as he stood up.  There were fresh streaks of mud on his legs and shorts.  His top had a rather large grass stain that was clearly visible from where Sherlock stood in the back of the crowd.  

He looked wild.  Animalistic and positively virile.  It was all Sherlock could do, not to go down to the game and haul John off, into a taxi and back to Baker Street.  But that wasn’t what he did.  Instead he stood and watched more of John.  He watched as he directed other players, as he ran the field.  He watched as he talked through their small break and he watched as he continued to bring men and women, twice his size down over and over again. And when he couldn’t watch any more, his fingers twitching from wanting to reach out and touch, his feet tapping from wanting to run over to John, he decided that he had seen enough.  As quietly as he arrived, he turned around and made his way out to the road and caught a taxi home.

~o~

Despite sending a message to John, telling him he was needed at home, immediately, it was still an hour before John returned home and by that stage Sherlock had paced himself into a right state.  So much so that the second he heard John return he very quickly made his way out to the living room and the second he saw John, making his way over to his chair, he practically pounced on the man, the two of them tumbling to the ground.

“ _Umph_ …Sherlock, what the…”

“Why aren’t you in uniform.” 

“What the fuck, Sherlock.  Get off me.”  John tried pushing at Sherlocks shoulders, trying to get the madman off of him, but Sherlock was unrelenting, his hands pawing at Johns clothes.

“Your uniform John, where is it.”

“God, under my clothes, where it always is.  What has got you so mental, Sherlock…what, _hmmmf.”_ John was cut of as his jumper was unceremoniously yanked up over his head and before John has a chance to get his bearings Sherlock was wrestling his track pants down his legs, yanking them off over his sock clad feet.

“You’ve been holding out on me John” Sherlock growled as he took in Johns form in his very appealing uniform.

“I haven’t held back on anything.  I asked you, multiple times you berk, to come to a game.”

“If you had told me you were wearing this when you asked…”

“If you had come along three Saturdays ago…hang on, why now are you interested in what I wear?”

“Because I saw you, John”  Sherlock informed him, settling on Johns shins and gently ghosting his hands up Johns thighs.  His muscly, sweaty, mud-streaked thighs.

“What, when?”

“Today.  Stop talking and let me look.”

“What do you mean today.  Were you….”

“Shhhh.”  Sherlock silenced him by placing a finger over Johns lips, while he continued to take in his fill.  

“Johhnnnn.  I want you to tackle me.  Like you did that other man.”

At this John grinned, finally cottoning on to why Sherlock was so frantic.  “Which one?” he asked

“The big one, with the beard.”

“Sherlock” John chuckled.  “Half the other team are twice my size and I’m pretty sure all of them have some form of facial hair.”

“How many men did you tackle?”

“A few.”

“Well, you need to tackle one more” and with that, Sherlock was off of Johns legs and running towards the bedroom.  John wasn’t far behind.

By the time he caught up, Sherlock was in their room, stripping off his shirt.  John didn’t wait for him to finish, just attacked.  

Sherlock felt Johns hands around his waist, the length of his body against his own and for a few brief seconds he was gliding backwards through the air with John pushed against him.  The familiar weight of John was increased, just briefly, as the two of them landed on the bed, bouncing once and Johns mouth instantly found Sherlocks neck, where he suckled the skin until they both knew it was going to bruise.

“John” Sherlock panted, trying to reach his partner, but his arms were restricted by the shirt which he had only managed to partly remove.    

“Shhh” John whispered against his skin and the next thing he knew those wonderful lips were wrapped around his nipple, sucking and biting.  

“Johhhnnnn” Sherlock groaned, arching up into the touch.

Johns hands trailed paths up and down Sherlocks ribs as his mouth teased Sherlocks nipples moving from one to the next and then back again.  He used his lips and teeth and tongue to torture him until he was panting and writhing under his ministrations and only when a small whimper left Sherlocks throat, after a particularly sharp tug on the pebbled nub with Johns teeth, did John pull back and look at his handy work.

“So, the uniform does it for you, huh?” he asked with a cocky half grin and a wicked twinkle in his eye as he took in the small red marks from his teeth and lips, littering Sherlocks chest and the flush that had spread all over.

“It certainly highlights your more admirable parts”

“My more admirable parts?”

“Yes, the bits that are quite…admirable.”

“So, what you are saying is that you only want me for my body?”

“Not only, but it is most certainly an added bonus, so if you wouldn’t mind putting that body back to work…”

“Would you like me to get to wok with the uniform off or on then?” John asked slyly, leaning over Sherlock and running the tip of his tongue around the shell of Sherlocks ear.

Sherlock tilted his head down so he could run a sweeping glance over Johns body and then back up again, making a decision.  

“Keep the socks on.”

“Kinky” John chuckled and then promptly removed himself from where he was still looming over Sherlock as he divested himself of everything but the long orange socks that shaped his calves oh so beautifully.  Sherlock also rid himself of every scrap of clothing and laid back on the bed, waiting for John and his very, _very_ admirable body.

John knelt on the end of the bed and then proceeded to crawl half way up the bed where he stopped to give Sherlock a smug look and then immediately turned his attentions to Sherlocks erection, which was quite enthused at this stage of the proceedings.   John lowered his mouth down to the turgid flesh and started sucking along the length from base to tip and then worked his way back down again, before using his tongue to lick down further, tracing his testicles in a figure eight, over and over again and all Sherlock could do was moan at the feeling, threading his fingers through Johns hair as the man’s mouth worked magic upon his genitals.  

“John” Sherlock whispered, trying very hard not to buck up, demanding more from John.  “ _Johnjohnjohnjo_ HNNN”  The last part came out as a deep sort of squeal as John took that moment to suck one of Sherlocks balls into his mouth and thrust a spit-slicked finger into his arse at the same time.  The finger thrust in and out as Johns tongue worked around the skin in his mouth and Sherlock arched back, his fingers roaming aimlessly over Johns head as small but desperate sounds left his mouth, between hard, short panted breaths.

Eventually John pulled his mouth off and after a few seconds there was another finger pushing at his entrance as Johns mouth slowly licked, sucked and kissed its way up Sherlocks length again, not stopping once he got to the top, but enveloping the entire crown in his wet, warm mouth and sucking oh, ever so gently until his second finger was all the way inside Sherlocks body, right up against the first one.  As soon as his fingers started moving again, Johns mouth became less than gentle as he swallowed half of Sherlocks length and started sucking hard and tonging at the length in his mouth.  As his fingers pushed and scissored and stretched and twisted inside of him, brushing over his prostate every now and then, his mouth pursed down and sucked, his cheeks hollowing out, his lips pulled back, adding just the gentlest scraping of teeth.  His tongue worked on the sensitive underside of his cock before probing into the slit.  All of the sensations were driving Sherlock wild as he tried, unsuccessfully, to focus on just one thing that John was doing to his body.  It was impossible.  Nerve endings fired off all over, his brain felt like it was melting as it tried to dissect each individual feeling; fingers, tongue, lips, the warmth, the wetness, the burn, the stretch, the feeling of good, the feeling of _oh god!_ and before too long it was all too much and Sherlocks body was arcing back, his hips stuttering while his fingers clenched around clumps of Johns hair and his toes dug painfully into the mattress as he came and came and came, a strangled cry barreling out of his mouth as he tried to work his lips around Johns name.  He wasn’t completely sure if he was successful, but in the end, he couldn’t really care.  

John, his John, had just given him one of the best orgasms he had ever had in his life, and now he was happy to lie back in pure bliss, hoping it never wore off.

That was until his eyes finally decided to focus and he was met with the sight of John, flushed, hair mussed, a dribble of Sherlocks come on his chin, sitting back on his heels and furiously jerking himself off.  Sherlocks brain finally stuttered back online and he determinedly decided that that just wasn’t on.

“Oh, god, Sherlock, that was so… _hmphfff_ , Sherlock!”

Sherlock had sat up and promptly tackled John onto his back, knocking the other mans hand off of his cock.  “Mine, John.  This is mine” Sherlock rasped and, placing his hands on Johns hips as leverage, he swooped his head down and took Johns cock in his mouth, swallowing him all the way down.

Sherlock loved the taste of John.  He loved the feeling of John on his tongue, the weight, the girth, the texture.  It was beautiful, like it was meant purely for Sherlocks mouth.  He loved the whimpers and the keening that came from Johns mouth as a result of being in Sherlocks mouth and as of today he loved the feel of Johns sock clad legs draping over his shoulders to pull him in closer.  The gentle scratch of the nylon and polyester rubbing against his shoulder blades encouraged Sherlock to undulate his spine as his head continued to bob up and down frantically, as Johns fingers grasped at his hair.  Under his own hands Sherlock could feel that Johns hips were trying to push up, so he gripped just that bit harder onto Johns hips, imagining the bruises that he would add to Johns skin.

“ _Sherlock_ …” John gasped desperately.  “…I’m not going to….it’s, god, I’m going to…”

He never got any further as it was right then that his body went rigid and Sherlock tasted the first wave of ejaculate, almost choking on it in his haste to swallow it down.  

“Oh, fuck” John hissed as the second spurt came, shortly followed by the third, and Sherlock slowed down his sucking, pulling up Johns cock until only the head was in his mouth, where he continued to suckle until there was absolutely nothing left to take from John.  He only completely pulled off when Johns hisses went from those that were of pleasure to ones that were more painful and then he collapsed on the bed, his head on Johns pelvis and Johns legs still over his shoulders.  It wasn’t terribly comfortable as his legs were bent at an awkward angle in order to fit on the bed, but he didn’t care.  

Again, he would have been happy to stay there, as they were, for eternity.  But it wasn’t to be.

“Can I take the socks off now” Came Johns voice from the end of the bed.  His voice was a pleasant mix of amused and blissed out.

“No” Sherlock answered somewhat sluggishly.

There was silence for a few more minutes as the two of them just lay there, Johns hands now gently carding through Sherlocks hair.  

“My feet really are hot.”

“Don’t care” was Sherlocks half-arsed reply, only just intelligible, as his face was half squashed up against Johns body.

“You will when they start to smell.”

“Nope.”

John just chuckled and slowly Sherlock could feel him slide his legs off of his body and his hands gently pushed Sherlocks head up as he started to slide out from under Sherlock.  Sherlock replied with a very disgruntled groan and rolled onto his back.

“You’re a disgusting mess” John grinned down at him from where he was now standing over Sherlock.  “And I’m going to have a shower.”

It was a testament as to how really out of it Sherlock was that it took him until John had run the shower and adjusted the temperature to his liking that he realised John had actually invited him to join him in the shower.  Once he realised this he quickly pulled himself off of the bed and made his way into the bathroom.

“Took you long enough” John sighed as Sherlock watched the hot water wash over his muscles. “Coming in?”

Sherlock didn’t need to be asked again and stepped over the lip of the tub to position himself behind John.  He took the sponge from the shelf, slathered it in his shower gel and started to slowly wash Johns back.

“So…” he questioned slowly.

“Hmmm?” John answered and Sherlock noted that he sounded exhausted.

“Rugby again next week?”

Sherlock could tell by the way John was slowly shaking his head that he was smiling.  “Sorry.  Today was the last match.”

“Oh” Sherlock replied, trying to sound interested rather than disappointed.  “Did you…win?”  He supposed that was the aim of the game - winning.  Wasn’t that usually the desired end result.

A small chuckle, more like a huff through his nostrils, came from John.  “Yeah, we did.  20:12.”

“Oh, that’s…good?”  He watched the sponge in his hand glide over Johns hip before making its way up to his shoulder and then down his arm.  “And you are playing next semester?”

This time the laugh that came out of John was a chuckle.  “Season” John corrected and then turned to face Sherlock.  “And only if the homicide squad still need me.”

“Right” Sherlock replied, his eyes darting out to the small pile of orange on the floor before fixing themselves back on the sponge, which was now brushing over Johns chest, leaving streaks of white bubbles in its wake.

Sherlock felt Johns fingers on his chin and then his head was bing gently pulled up so his gaze met Johns.  With a cheeky grin John leant in and placed a brief kiss on Sherlocks lips. “The shirt I will need to return, but the socks are mine.”

 


End file.
